A Universal Understanding
by Ace-Of-Spades-2014
Summary: The thoughts of different characters throughout the series about Sherlock and John's relationships. All chapters can be read as oneshots.
1. Greg's Understanding

Greg Lestrade put up a lot to have Sherlock Holmes provide his insights into the more difficult crimes scenes, one of which was being told consistently that he was an idiot. Having Sherlock around, always proving his thought processes wrong and being put down on a regular basis was a humbling, if not irritating, way to spend many of his days. It certainly wasn't helping his level of confidence.

However, despite Sherlock's accusations against his intellect, Greg was not a stupid man.

"Go on then," he sighed with only slight amusement, mixed with exasperation, when Sherlock mocked that there was plenty of clues to pinpoint the shooter. The detective consultant had almost died, and Greg figured he could at least give Sherlock his shining moment...though you'd think he'd be content with the many shining moments he had daily.

As he talked, Greg tried hard to hide the genuine smile that threatened to break through. "But not just a marksman, a fight. His hands couldn't have shaken at all clearly he's acclimated to violence," he was explaining proudly, thinking he was showing off. "He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle." Greg nodded along as if he didn't already have a name in mind while Sherlock's mind worked out catch up to his brilliant deductions. "You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service…"

Sherlock's voice began to trail, and from the corner of his eyes Greg could see Watson standing outside the boundary of crime scene tape. Again, Greg had to force himself to keep from smiling at the obvious answer, and at the sight of Sherlock's realization.

"And nerves of steel…"

Then he was backing down, stating the didn't actually know who could have shot from the other room to kill the cabbie, and Greg put up a weak offense at his denial. Sherlock said he had better things to be talking about, claimed he couldn't think properly because he was in shock, and then headed off to where the shooter stood.

This time, Greg did allow himself to smile. If John Watson could make Sherlock declare ignorance, going against his pride, then there certainly was something special about the detective's new flat mate. His smile widened as they walked away from the crime scene, side by side, trying to keep themselves from laughing at whatever joke they shared...and failing.

So, no, Greg Lestrade was not as stupid as Sherlock would have liked to think otherside. But, being quite intelligent, Greg knew that the best course of action was to keep his mouth shut and just watch with a bemused smile as Sherlock strutted home with his new partner by his side.


	2. Mycroft's Understanding

Mycroft Holmes watched with an indifferent mask as his baby brother walked away from crime scene of the disturbed cabbie. The small soldier that had recently taken position as Sherlock's flatmate, paused in following the consulting detective to gauge Mycroft warily.

"So when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?"

"Yes, of course." He studied the middle aged man with a renewed interest. It had been clear to him the moment John Watson had accepted to be Sherlock's flatmate, and then, not only tolerating Sherlock's living habits, but thriving upon being an accomplice to his brother's antics.

What truly caught Mycroft's attention now though, was that Watson wasn't just going along with Sherlock's chases and mysteries because of his desire for adrenaline and longing for the battlefield, but actually had his brother's interests in mind.

What did it say about the man, that he would kill for a person whom he had just met?

"I mean, it actually is a childish feud?"

"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine Christmas dinners."

The man grinned slightly with an amused shake of his head, before he dutifully jogged to catch up to the younger Holmes.

"Sir," his companion called his attention, "shall we go?"

"Interesting, that soldier fellow," he decided to comment aloud, because the thoughts whirling in his head were too profound to keep completely quiet.

The two were laughing now, despite the seriousness of their scenery, walking almost elbow to elbow. It had been a long time since Mycroft had seen his brother laugh like that, so openly with another person. He watched them with what would have been fondness if it had been anyone else doing the observing.

"He could be the making of my brother…"

Mycroft knew his brother to be sentimental, and knew well enough that Sherlock wasn't the sociopath that he claimed to be. Rather, the younger Holmes was a young man who had learned at an early age to defend himself against the cruelty of normal society. That defense tended to be displayed by an appearance of indifference and a life that held no room for valuable connections. The elder Holmes himself didn't need those types of relationships that others did, for he didn't value the emotional component it, However, Sherlock, despite his objections to the idea, was emotional, and Mycroft knew that on some level his brother did need something more than what he was living with.

It had always been worrisome that Sherlock had been trying to distract himself with anything except that which might actually prove permanently useful - companionship.

But then a slightly distressful thought entered Mycroft's mind. "Or make him worse than ever."

After all, though Mycroft had always wanted his brother to find someone who could calm his maddening and whirling mind, he hadn't actually thought of the person that might be able to catch Sherlock's interest to be that sort of companion. Was it actually wise to allow an addict to adrenaline and danger to influence his brother further? To encourage such behavior? To aid in his mad chases?

Still, he pushed the worry aside for now. He'd keep a careful watch on the two...on Sherlock Holmes and his Dr. Watson.


	3. Moriarty's Understanding

Jim Moriarty was giddy with anticipation of this game that was underfoot, utterly pleased with the way his pawns were playing his game.

Sherlock Holmes was so interesting...at least compared to the normal, boring people that walked the earth day in and day out. The detective consultant, at least, had an intelligence close to his, one that had led him here to this pool, playing so cleverly into his hands. And brilliant it all was, this game. A match between the detective consultant and the criminal consultant, two brilliant minds playing on a battlefield of innocent, meaningless humans.

Unfortunately, he realized, about to walk away from the pool, Sherlock was actually too close to unraveling some of his other plans. So, damn this game and this interesting, most handsome man. Jim had other things that tended to be tended to.

"But the flirting is over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play."

And honestly, it had been worth it, despite the need to leave it be for now. Jim had been interested in Sherlock for years, ever since finding out that the detective had known about the details of Carl Powers' death. However, until recently, the criminal consultant had done nothing about his interest, because, other than his brilliant mind, his personality could be considered lackadaisical. There was nothing fun about breaking a man already broken by society. But that had changed, hadn't it?

"So take this as a friendly warning…back off... Although, I have loved this, this little game of ours."

"People have died." Sherlock stated, and Jim noted the lack of empathy in his voice. It was just a cold calculation...or at least, that's how the detective wanted to come off as. Cold. Distant. Heartless. The pretense was enough to make Jim laugh.

"That's what people do!" He yelled, because in addition to being amusing in its own right, Sherlock's hidden emotional values were annoying too. Honestly, any sentiment towards the moral was annoying.

And then, the unsurprising happened. He was assaulted from behind from the captive himself. "If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." The pet seethed in his ears, military arms tightening around his body. Beautifully strong, Jim noticed, but otherwise so boring. So predictable.

"Isn't he sweet?" He mocked, unafraid. "I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets." Sherlock made no indication that his words were getting to him, but his eyes were fixated on the soldier that had signed his death sentence by clinging to the game master. "They're so touchingly loyal," now he spat his words at the pet itself, "You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha."

This part of the game was fun too, Jim admitted to himself, though he knew he really had to be going. So he waited until he was, as predicted, let go, and hurried his taunts along. He laughed at the desperate soldier and the bravado of the detective.

"Kill you? Mm, no. Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though." He was having too much fun. "I'm saving it up for someone special. No, no, no. You don't stop prying, I'll burn you," he spat, the madness in his eyes beginning to truly express themselves. "I'll burn the heart out of you."

Because that's where the real fun was to be had. Breaking a man that had just learned to be fixed and made whole. To crush what had just been created. To burn away something valuable that had just risen from the ash.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Jim smiled at the thinly veiled stoicism. "But we both know that's not quite true." His eyes glanced at the soldier waiting at the side before he took off from the pool once more. No, Jim Moriarty knew exactly where Sherlock Holmes' heart lay, and exactly how to burn it.


	4. Adler's Understanding

Irene Adler strutted into view as John Watson rambled on about Sherlock's behavior, thinking it was Mycroft he was reporting to. "Hello, Dr. Watson."

Long seconds passed in a pale, blank stare. Passive expression, for all intended purposes. The only detail she could find that might have alluded to his dislike of her was the thinly pressed lips.

Calmly, as if she were a patient being told how to live a healthier life, because there would be consequences if she didn't, he spoke. "Tell him you're alive."

He was so sincere. There was a part of her that admired that about him, that vibrant protective side that was present even in the soft tone of his words. However, it wasn't something she could condon. Caring to that extreme was a waste of time, she knew. Nothing good ever came out of caring for someone other than herself.

So she shook her head and stated just as calmly, "He'll come after me."

"I'll come after you if you don't."

"Hmm, I believe you." Of course she didn't. One would have to be a fool to not believe Dr. John Watson when he made threats on behalf of the physical and emotional comforts of Sherlock Holmes.

That was when his anger began seep into his voice, scolding her for pretending to be dead, for sending the detective in the funny looking hat into a state of what appeared to be depression. She tried to respond just as calmly as she had before, but there was something in his accusation that quickly forced her into a mode of defense, lowering herself to the standards of the commonwealth so that this man who had earned the place to be Sherlock's side would understand her reasons for acting out in such a manner.

She tried to explain to him that everything she had done had been for Sherlock's safety. It had been a mistake to give the detective her phone, and it was a mistake she needed to fix, because if she didn't, it wouldn't be just her life that would forfeited.

Yet, the doctor was undeterred. "So is this. Tell him you're alive."

"I can't."

"Fine. I'll tell him and I still won't help you." He looked so disappointed in her. Not for his sake, but for Sherlock's. Everything was about Sherlock.

He turned to walk away, so clearly prepared to do as he had threatened. Grudgingly - though she wouldn't allow it to show in her voice - she called out. "What do I say?"

"What do you normally say?" He yelled. She knew she had hit a sore spot, his furiosity fueling him towards her, her eyes fierce and his muscles tense. "You've texted him a lot!"

In the midst of the anger, she was sure there was pain there too, but she couldn't focus on that now. Might take advantage of it at a later date. "Just the usual stuff."

"There is no usual in this case."

It was almost dejected, on the verge of being pathetic, and she found herself humorist him. "'Good morning. I like your funny hat.'" He looked away, caught between being confused and not believing her. "'I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner.'" That caught his attention. "'Hmm, you look sexy on Crimewatch, let's have dinner.' 'I'm not hungry, let's have dinner.'"

Brows furrowed and the edges of his eyes crinkled, he questioned, "You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?"

"At him. He never replies."

There was a small, if not undetectable shake of the head. "Sherlock always replies, to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."

"Does that make me special?" She wondered, honestly curiously to know where she stood with the detective, but also mildly amused by the man in front of her rambling on about the man.

"I don't know. Maybe."

She reigned in her smirk. "Are you jealous?" Her eyes were on her phone, planning her next move.

"We're not a couple."

Eyes never leaving the screen, she couldn't keep the tiny lift of her lips in a tiny smile. "Yes, you are." It had been obvious to her the moment the two had stepped into her home. So many clues to suggest it. The punch that had been delivered with precision as to not damage any of the finer details of the detective's face, following along with the man's plans though he himself didn't understand what was happening, and taking such good care of him when she had poisoned Sherlock. "There." She finished texting. "'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."

Now that she had done as he had originally asked, he had eased back into his casual, false calm demeanor."Who, who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

Oh, the poor man. Stuck in such denial. Bad enough that he was devoted to the detective with such ardent fervor in the first place, but to try and convince himself that it was because of a purely platonic relationship between the two….

"Well, I am. Look at us both." Both consumed by the thought of a sociopath who solved crimes for a living. One because of emotions too strong to admit to, and one because of elevated interest (nothing more, she had to tell herself).

Then they both heard it. The sensual moan of a text alert.


	5. Molly's Understanding

For as long as Molly had known Sherlock, the crazy, genius detective had always been unnecessarily rude to her. There wasn't a meeting between them that didn't consist of him saying something cruel to her, and she was never quite sure why she continued to fall for him.

Or, actually, she did know. He was brilliant. He was eccentric. He was devastatingly handsome. And as mean as he was to her, at least she was in his sights. At least she wasn't ignored like the rest of the public, and at least she was one of the few people that he came to when he needed something. She knew it was pathetic, but she couldn't help but feel proud that she had done something to gain even the littlest bit of attention from the man.

That pride had only slightly diminished upon meeting John Watson, who, though a very good doctor in his own rights, still lacked the extent of scientific mind that she and Sherlock shared. Yet, despite his mostly average intelligent, and average way of looking, and by far average way of posturing himself before the public, he was the one to not only gain Sherlock's attention, but to again his admiration.

There was a part of her that wanted to be jealous of the army doctor (and she was to a point), but truth be told, he was too easy to like. It wasn't even just that he was considerate and wore his heart on his sleeves. A lot about what Molly liked about him was the effect he had on Sherlock.

In the years that she had known Sherlock and had him coming down into her lab to do experiments or have her assist in cases, only John Watson could manage to make the detective take into account the impact his words and attitude had on others. Since appearing in the his life, Sherlock had been more...human...more understanding. And certainly more emotional.

Like now, with both of them in her lab trying to figure out the latest clue from the kidnapping. John had been sent in the back room to do his own observations while Sherlock worked beside her. He wore a serious expression, dead set on solving the mystery in front of him, but there was something more about him that he couldn't mask.

"You're a bit like my dad," she commented while he tried to ignore her for his experiment. "He's dead." She winced at the implication of her comparison. "Oh, sorry."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."

She wanted to be mad at him for the way he was speaking to her, the way he had been speaking to her since arriving at the hospital, and she was to some extent, but she couldn't get over that something in his gaze. There was a sadness that enveloped him, so deep and profound that she almost couldn't believe what she was seeing, and she found there was no way she could use her frustration and anger against him.

"When he was dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly…"

"You look sad. When he can't see you." Almost as if he couldn't keep himself from doing so, he glanced toward John, and suddenly there was more than just sadness there. There was concern and a sense of nearing loss. "Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see." His voice was low, his heart spliced open.

She frowned with a depressing sigh. "I don't count."

Because she knew, in Sherlock's world, that while there were plenty of people that there were in fact his friends, there was only one that truly, deeply counted: Dr. John Watson.


End file.
